It Started With a Laugh
by Rae Logan
Summary: A fluttery sensation made itself known at his core. He was relatively unfamiliar with this feeling; it had been so long since he felt something like this in response to interacting with a person, so he honestly thought he'd been spontaneously stricken with a bad case of jitters. (Set before "White Noise")
1. Chapter 1

So, since "White Noise" got some positive reception on a few sites, I decided to expand the story universe with a story set before it. Unlike "White Noise", this isn't as well thought out from the start. I have an idea for the outline, but I'm going to take this story slower than the other.

So, basically, let's see how I can write how QuackerJack met Claire, and how I can help solidify what's established in passing mention in "White Noise"

* * *

It started with a laugh.

QuackerJack felt his face heat up and he hid it behind a packet of stapled papers he quickly grabbed from his desk. Embarrassment was always such a unpleasant feeling, and he didn't want to let on just how awkward he felt.

He peered over the top of the makeshift barrier, and eyed her carefully, realizing that his tongue was refusing to form coherent words, so he just stammered like a fool until he clamped his beak shut and nodded as he reached a hand out for the envelope.

She was a mailroom clerk, and so she was going to be visiting the office floor often, it seemed, as was the nature of her job.

QuackerJack had been speaking with one of his cubicle neighbors, and had made a small joke, as he often did (and often, it went over most of his coworkers' heads). Then he had heard it. A small laugh. A genuinely amused noise, one that he wasn't accustomed to hearing on this floor.

A fluttery sensation made itself known at his core. He was relatively unfamiliar with this feeling; it had been so long since he felt something like this in response to interacting with a person, so he honestly thought he'd been spontaneously stricken with a bad case of jitters.

He didn't know if he was giddy or maybe sick, but he did know that the more it lingered, the more it felt right.

Was this what a "crush" was? It certainly felt like the feeling it caused was crushing down on him, and now that's all he could think of.

 _She looked at me. She laughed at my joke. She smiled at me. She... probably doesn't know who I am..._

The last thought halted everything with the savage reality like it had hit a brick wall. Surely this lady didn't know who he was and what he'd been notorious for. That had to be the only explanation as to why she'd even made eye contact with him. She simply just didn't know better...

The fluttery feeling turned sour in his stomach, and he turned back to his work with far less enthusiasm now as he snuck a glance in the direction of the elevator doors down the aisle, watching her disappear from sight.

 _... I feel sick._

It was the only explanation he could find for this awful new feeling. He put his head on his desk with a heavy thump, and hid his face in his folded arms. He felt like he was going to hurl, and now he really did consider the possibility that the queasiness was just instead him being spontaneously stricken by some bug going around the office.

"You okay there, Jack?"

He lifted his head slightly and saw his cubicle neighbor, Rick (a dog), peering over the top edge of the cubicle at him.

"... I think I'm sick..." QuackerJack mumbled, staring blankly at the idling computer screen in front of him. "... I feel wierd..."

"Sure it's not butterflies?"

QuackerJack squinted with a confused look crossing his face.

"... Butterflies?"

Rick gave a short laugh.

"Yeah, y'know, butterflies." He waved a hand. "I saw the way you got all flustered; you like her, don't you?"

This made QuackerJack's face blush with such ferocity, his wondered if his cheeks were actually glowing from the heat.

"... I don't think that matters if I do. She's probably out of my league anyway." He huffed, bringing his hands to his face to hide the reddish tint. "Besides, all she'll probably need to hear is that I'm QuackerJack, that crazy toy maker that used to terrorize the streets and match wits with Darkwing, and that's it, poof, bye-bye any chance."

"You fit in here just fine, Jack." Rick shrugged. "And we all know about that, too."

"Gee, thanks." QuackerJack said dryly, rolling his eyes. "I don't know if that makes me feel any better."

"Well, talk to her next time she's here. What's the worst that can happen?"

QuackerJack gave Rick a look that clearly said: "Are you serious right now?"

Truth be told, he wasn't even sure if he was ready to open up to someone like that. He was barely starting to accept the loss of his beloved Mr. Banana Brain, and that alone had taken months of city appointed therapy sessions to even bring him to a functional level.

Grief over loss was one thing, but he had no idea how he'd be able to handle rejection, if he even dared to give it a shot.

The thought of it was making those so called butterflies in his stomach multiply and now he had a squirmy feeling in his gut. He really hated anxiety.

 _Just do your job, and work on those toys, at least you know you can trust those not to hurt you..._

He sat up straighter, stretched his arms above his head, wove his fingers together to crack his knuckles in preparation to type, and hovered his hands above the keyboard.

 _... She's cute, though._

QuackerJack slammed his hands on the keyboard, causing a string of gibberish to appear on the screen as he held them there, staring ahead with a blank, wide eyed look. He could feel the heat in his face again, and was only partially aware that his coworkers were peering cautiously into his cubicle. The motion had caused the bells of his hat to jingle as they had been flung upward from momentum, and were now swinging back and forth gently to a stop.

He was also now standing out of his chair, which had rolled to the other end of the cubicle, and he looked up from the screen awkwardly as he was now painfully aware that all eyes were on him.

"... What?" He was hoping that no one had caught on to the internal turmoil he was experiencing at the moment. "... Um... muh-muscle spasm..." He attempted to cover it feebly.

The butterflies were absolutely relentless now. He wondered if he could be excused to the break room until he could compose himself. Maybe that was a bit too obvious, but he felt like he was experiencing a sort of sensory overload, and his supervisor was relatively understanding about his occasional need to "decompress" in order to function properly.

He lifted his hands off the keyboard slowly, and just stood there, staring at the floor in a state of stupor.

It had all started with a laugh, and though he didn't fully understand... now he was smitten.

* * *

Of course, he wasn't going to admit that flat out. He was convinced that this was all just a fleeting fancy and would fade by the end of the week.

It was now the following Tuesday, and yet, he still found himself going out of his way to seem busy, to avoid eye contact. This time he had grabbed a joke book off the shelf beside him and hid his face behind the pages. Looking back on that later, he felt absolutely stupid that he thought that could have been convincing.

QuackerJack peered over the top of the book, and nearly dropped it. She was holding out a handful of envelopes addressed to him.

His face was red again, and he was half glad that his hat covered most of his face anyway.

Tongue tied, absolutely tongue tied, all he can do is nod and reach for the envelopes, and smile weakly as the butterflies came back. How did anyone function under this kind of stress? It was maddening, and he'd know that very well.

He watched her leave out of the corner of his eye, and put his face in his hands in embarrassment once the elevator door closed. He shuffled his feet on the floor in an anxious fidget, and whispered laments under his breath.

 _Twitterpated... I'm hopelessly twitterpated... That's a first... Never have I ever... Who is she..?_

"Why don't you just go talk to her?"

Rick's voice made QuackerJack jump and toss the handful of envelopes in the air with a shout. They hit the floor in a flutter of papers as QuackerJack looked at him with wide eyes.

"... I haven't been able to get so much as a 'Hello' out all week when she drops off the mail, how on earth do you think I can do _that?_ "

"Gosh, it's like you've never had a crush before."

"... I haven't." QuackerJack said earnestly. "I've always been working on making toys and designing them and all that. I wouldn't even know where to start."

"Well, ya like her, don't you?"

"... I guess. I'm still trying to figure out what's going on with me." QuackerJack shrugged. "I don't even know her name."

"So ask her." Rick said simply, shrugging back.

"Y'know, it sure seems like it's easier on your end of things, you're not the one who's insides are all twisted up in knots." QuackerJack frowned. "Are you sure that I'm not just sick or something? Maybe it's just that..." His tongue slipped between his teeth in an expression of disgust. "... Definitely feel a little sick right now..."

"You probably just have a bad case of the nerves, then."

"You keep giving these things names and I don't understand!" QuackerJack tossed his hands in the air in exasperation. "Butterflies! Nerves! Where did you learn these! I am very confused!"

He put his head on the desk with another thump. He was getting a headache from trying to sort this all out, to be honest. It was frustrating, and frustration was something he had trouble dealing with.

He huffed a heavy sigh and closed his eyes.

"... Is the day over yet?"

* * *

QuackerJack woke up in the middle of the night. This was a common occurrence, really, be it from insomnia or the occasional troubled dream.

He was sitting up, hunched over and gripping the blanket in balled up fists, feathers damp, particularly around the chest and back, which made his shirt stick to him. Wide eyes were darting around the dark room, and he felt terrible as his breathing hitched. He knew that it was probably a residual feeling from the nightmare he just had, it was a common enough thing, after all.

If only Mr. Banana Brain was still here, he'd have someone that he could talk to about it...

He gasped harshly when he realized he hadn't taken a breath in almost half a minute, and he collapsed backwards onto the soft pillows as he rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. There was a dull ache in his chest that slowly went away with each breath. He wasn't sure if that feeling had been from holding his breath, or from that terrible alone feeling due to Mr. Banana Brain's absence.

He was tired, but he couldn't stay asleep, not when his brain was buzzing with thoughts now. Shame, as he really should be getting rested for the next day.

He really didn't much care for this studio apartment he'd been given by the nice people at QuackWerks as part of a "villain rehabilitation program" (and boy, did he hate the word "villain"), it felt more like a fancy cell to him. Yes, there was the necessities, and yes, he could come and go as he pleased, but it just didn't feel much like a "home" to him, no matter how many trinkets and toys he'd stack on the shelves and tabletop surfaces.

It all felt so artificial. So fake. Like it could go away at any moment if he got too attached to it.

He squinted at the clock on the cable box across the large composite room, and the bright blue digital numbers flashed at him, telling him it was two in the morning. Of course. It was always two in the morning when he woke up, it seemed...

No way he was going to be able to wind down right now, he might as well just get up for a bit, maybe boil up some water for something nice, like cocoa, and watch some late night programs until he felt tired enough to sleep.

Of course, at this hour, it was mostly just reruns and bizzare programs getting dumped off at the late night slots to fill time blocks, but he didn't care much for plots right now, he just wanted the low noise to fill the air and give him something else to focus on.

QuackerJack slid off the bed and to the small kitchen end of the apartment, reached into the cabinet for a mug and set the water up to boil. Inside the cabinet was various little sticky notes stuck to the cups and inside the door; personal reminders of tasks and such for him to keep track of during his morning routine.

He plucked the note off the mug that reminded him to eat _before_ he took his pills, then stuck it to another mug, and grabbed two little cardboard boxes, one in either hand, and weighed the options.

Cocoa or tea?

One was more of a comfort item, the other probably would help him get back to sleep faster. But cocoa seemed more appealing right now...

Within minutes, he was lifting the kettle from the stove before it had a chance to whistle, and he poured it into the cup full of chocolaty powder and tiny marshmallows, with a little square of chocolate dropped in there for an extra boost in flavor. The only thing to do was wait for it to cool down enough to sip at it, so he set the cup down on a side table and turned on the TV.

Cheesy sci-fi movies, bizzare animated programs that no sane person would enjoy during the day, and true crime documentaries on particularly unnerving cases seemed to be the available faire tonight.

The cheesy sci-fi movie was something about dinosaur skeletons coming to life and the whole visual of pterodactyl bones maintaining flight without any reasonable methods was strangely amusing to him.

Cheesy sci-fi flick it is. At least he could be amused by the outlandish plot and unrealistic premise, and the silly stilted acting would just be the icing on the cake.

He sat down in the cushy chair and sipped his cocoa, trying to focus on the screen, but he could hear the distant noise elsewhere in the apartment complex, like two people having a confrontation. He tried to ignore it, it wasn't his business, after all.

 _I wonder if she's up right now, too..._

He sipped the cocoa again, and turned the low volume up a notch. He blinked and realized that he'd been musing about the mail room lady. He swirled the drink in the cup with a gentle shake.

 _I wonder if she likes cheesy sci-fi movies..._

He smiled a little, but he wasn't sure why he did.

 _... I wish I knew her name..._

He sipped again and gave a tired sigh.

"... Bet she doesn't even know I exist beyond dropping the mail off..." QuackerJack mumbled aloud to no one in particular, not expecting an answer from anyone. Mr. Banana Brain was gone, after all.

He heard a thump from the above apartment, and glanced up at the ceiling from force of habit. Again, his studio apartment was alright, but he just didn't like the noise from neighbors from all directions, particularly the ones that shared either a wall, a floor, or a ceiling with him. He'd always assumed that the fact his apartment was on an upper level, that it simply reverberated sound more efficiently than it should.

Maybe he should invest in a white noise machine to drown out everyone at night? Maybe something nice, like the ocean or a rainforest..?

The sound of water running through the shared pipes made him frown. He liked that noise the least, he couldn't explain why. Perhaps it was because it sounded like something was sliding through the shared walls...

He sipped the cocoa again. The mug was half empty and the marshmallows had melted into a layer of gooey sugar that stuck to the sides of the cup and edges of his beak. The drink itself was lukewarm.

This movie was certainly silly and cliché, but it was clear that the people who put it together had fun with the whole thing, so he wasn't expecting it to be serious. It was entertainment, after all.

He snorted a laugh, and found himself wishing he had someone to watch this with. Could be fun; silly comments to make with each other, pointing out inaccuracies to humorous effort, just basically riffing on it, all in good fun.

 _You're thinking of her, aren't you?_

It was like a whisper in his ear and he jumped a little, jerked his head to the right, then the left, then put both hands on the mug and lifted his feet off the floor and onto the chair with him, tongue between his teeth in an expression of annoyance.

He wanted desperately to have his little fruit headed pal to talk to about this, and now he was imagining it vividly enough. Bleh, he really shouldn't be up this late anyway, recurrent insomnia does things to the brain.

There was another thump, like a series of footsteps, on the other side of the complex. He really hated it about this time of night, he could never really tell if his tired mind was imagining it, or if it was really another neighbor. The distant noise of keys jingling in a lock gave him some solace in telling him it was legit, so now he was wondering who could possibly be out and about on the streets at this time of night, considering the Crimebots policing the streets with adherence to the rules.

Curfew wasn't solidly enforced, per se, but at the very least advised strongly.

 _You should talk to her, what's the worst that can happen?_

QuackerJack blinked, dumbfounded. That was honestly a bit encouraging.

He smiled again. Maybe he should. Wasn't that what Rick advised, too?

... The worst that could happen would be that he screwed everything up.

But

The best thing that could happen is that they end up as friends. Friends are nice.

 _She did laugh at your joke, though._

He felt that heat in his face again. He sipped the lukewarm cocoa again, the cup was almost empty.

He looked at the clock. It was now three in the morning. If he was going to be functional tomorrow, he needed to go back to sleep as soon as possible. He yawned, and decided that he had calmed down enough to give it a try again.

He finished his cup and rinsed it out to leave in the sink for clean up tomorrow. His ears picked up the noise of someone playing video games at this ungodly hour. He was too tired to be anything but mildly annoyed that they didn't have the decency to at least turn the volume down.

Heck, he could barely even recall what had woken him up in the first place. It occurred to him that he hadn't even given it much thought once his mind wandered. Whether that was a good or bad thing, he wasn't really sure.

 _... I'm going to talk to her tomorrow..._

* * *

Easier said than done, of course. It seemed that all the courage he'd worked up over the course of waiting just abandoned him completely once she did her rounds and handed out the mail.

He'd caught wind of the rumor going around that apparently she'd thought him as a very shy person. Great, she had a preconceived opinion of him now, and it was hardly accurate. He wasn't shy, he was just nervous about speaking to her. But ordinarily, he was far from quiet and reserved.

Oh, everything was going along just _fine._

QuackerJack considered maybe it wasn't too late to back out now. Maybe he could get his cubicle moved to a different office, change his name, and start a new life-!

She's right there, right there handing him his daily stack of envelopes. He tried to force himself to utter something other than the usual mumble of gratitude, but once again, he was dumbstruck.

 _... This is life now, I guess..._ He told himself, wondering if he should just resign to this routine.

It wouldn't be all that bad, really. He'd be able to see her everyday, and he hadn't spooked her yet with his bizzare personality, so maybe this was the best alternative..?

... Tortuous, more like. Absolutely frustrating. What on earth was he doing? He'd been able to make such a theatrical persona for himself in the past; loud, energetic, eccentric, and couldn't care what anyone thought of him. Played to the beat of his own drum.

So why was this one seemingly simple task so difficult for him?

He inhaled deeply, and held his breath. He was going to give it a shot. What's the worst that could happen?

He looked up and realized she'd already gone to the next cubicles. Standing up to look around the corner, he was disheartened to find that she was was already too far enough away that shouting for her attention would just be wierd. Oh, well, maybe tomorrow then..?

It was at this moment, he regretted leaving the handful of metal jacks on the floor near his desk, because when he stepped back, his soft sole shoes landed on them and he yelped under his breath in both shock and pain.

He jumped back on pure primal reaction to the sudden sharp pain in his foot, and tripped backwards over his chair and onto the red wagon he kept on the other side of the cubicle, and could tell that he probably bruised himself somewhere on his lower back. The force of him hitting the wagon and into the thin walls of his cubicle jarred his shelves loose and everything toppled down on him.

This was not the first time he'd been buried in an avalanche of playthings, in fact, this was not the worst incident, so he knew instinctively to throw his hands up and cover his face. Thankfully, most everything was either lightweight or fluffy, so it wasn't too bad.

Pushing the pile of stuff off his face, he decided that maybe the best thing to do now was get a transfer and change his name, because no doubt, she'd probably saw all that.

Maybe she was asking him if he was alright, now, maybe she was concerned, but right now, QuackerJack was hyperaware of a rolling noise and tilted his head up and back, against better judgment. He widened his eyes when he saw the Magic 8-ball he had foolishly left on the top shelf for no reason, teetering precariously on the edge of said shelf, as if taunting him.

"... Aw, nuts..." was all he managed as it rolled off and the heavy, liquid filled hard plastic ball clobbered him in the head and he saw a flash of white before he lost consciousness.

* * *

The first thing he was aware of after this happened was that there was a blurry light moving from side to side in front of his eyes. He didn't realize that he should have followed it with his eyes until his vision cleared somewhat and he tilted his head in confusion to look around with a bit of a walleyed stare.

Concerned coworkers all around him, it seemed like maybe someone had dragged him into the break room and onto the couch, with one of the cushions pulled off and used to partly prop him comfortably against the armrest.

There was sort of murmur drifting about, but he was more concerned about the dull ache in his skull that felt like something the size of a grapefruit and much, much harder had smashed into it and left an egg sized knot on his head.

Oh, right... The Magic 8-Ball. Why was it even on that shelf anyway..?

There was also a distant ringing in his ears, was there a phone ringing out in the office..?

Despite the fact that he was disoriented and had _such_ a headache, QuackerJack had enough clarity to accurately assume that he might be concussed. However, any thoughts that extended beyond that idea didn't get far because he was now preoccupied with following that persistent waving light with his eyes, which he'd later find out was a pen light being used to check his visual reflexes to assess the severity of his concussion.

"I think he's coming around." He heard someone say.

"Gosh, the one heavy thing he's got on that shelf and it hits him square in the head."

"Think we should take him to the hospital?" A third voice chimed in. "He did just get a good knock on the noggin. Look at the size of the goose egg on his head. Ouch!"

"I think as long as his pupils are the same size, he'll be fine, but it wouldn't hurt to keep an eye on him just to be sure."

A hand was waved in front of his face, and he looked up at the dog doing that. It was Rick.

"Heeeey, buddy, you took a quite a hit there." Rick said with a tone not unlike the one you'd adopt when trying to coax a cat out of a tree. "Got some questions for you, just to be sure you're okay, alright?"

"... Okay..." QuackerJack finally said after realizing he hadn't spoken a word aloud since before the Magic 8-Ball whacked him in the head.

Personally, he wanted to just sleep the whole thing off, but the concerned tones of his coworkers managed to break through the muddled state of mind he was in right now after that blow.

"Alright, then, you're talking, that's a good sign." Said Rick. "Now, this is going to probably sound dumb, but can you tell us what your name is?"

"... Jack..."

"Oh, good. That's an important one." QuackerJack heard another coworker say further in the small crowd around him.

"Cool, that's a good sign." Rick agreed. "So, Jack, what do you remember up until now?"

"... I feel like I got hit by a baseball, but I doubt that's what happened..."

"You're right to assume that. Actually, you tripped and knocked everything off your shelves and, well, this hit you in the head."

Rick held out the Magic 8-Ball, which had settled on the answer "Outlook Not So Good", as if mocking him.

QuackerJack tried to sit up, but hands grabbed his shoulders carefully, to keep him laying down. He tried again and again before it clicked as to why this was happening. Right, he had just been unconscious for an unknown amount of time, not to mention the whole getting clobbered thing. Everyone was just concerned.

At least his vision wasn't blurry anymore, and the ringing had died down considerably, so maybe it wasn't as bad as everyone was worried about. In fact, he felt perfectly fine now, aside from the fact that the impact spot in his head was sore and had a particularly nasty bruise on it.

He blinked.

"... How long was I out?"

"Not too long, I think maybe a couple minutes, but you were _out._ "

"Well, I feel better now, so I guess I can get back to work and-"

"Actually, Mr. QuackerJack..." The voice of his supervisor sounded off and QuackerJack tilted his head back to look at him with a look of mild alarm. "It would probably be in your best interest to take the rest of the day off. You suffered a blow to the head, after all."

"But-But I feel _fine_ now!" QuackerJack protested loudly. He absolutely hated the idea of falling behind on projects, and this certainly would set him back.

"That's a good thing to hear, Mr. QuackerJack, but as your supervisor, it's my responsibility to monitor and ensure the safety and well-being of my crew." Said his supervisor. "You were injured on the clock, so it's my responsibility to make sure you recover from that, even if you have to take time off."

"I only got hit in the head with a Magic 8-Ball, I didn't break my leg!" The clownish duck insisted, feeling a sense of panic rise in him as he sat up quickly. He didn't like the idea of being prevented from working on toy designs, and the very concept of it stirred up a primal response of horror in him that he often suspected was a result of the past. "I can still-!" He stopped suddenly and threw his hands to his head. "... Okay, I see your point. That's a bit of a headache, I think I sat up too fast... Ow..."

* * *

Of course, there was no way for QuackerJack to be able to talk his way out of this. He was going to have to take a little time off whether he wanted to or not, at the very least, just sleep the ouch off.

That was expected, after all; he'd gotten gotten clobbered in the head.

What he hadn't expected was for him to be escorted to his apartment, as it was agreed by everyone that it wouldn't be wise for him to operate a vehicle (or anything requiring a moderate amount of brain power for that matter) right now. If the knot on his head wasn't sore from the bruising, he'd almost be offended by the notion that he was incapable of handling it himself, but in all fairness, he supposed it would indeed be difficult to drive a car if he was holding an ice pack to his head.

What was also unexpected was that the lady from the mail room was the one to offer to drive him, as her shift was pretty much close to done anyway.

So now, here he was, in a car with the girl that had been the indirect source of all his clumsy misfortune in the past couple of weeks or so, while he was currently holding an ice pack to his head, face flushed about a few shades below the red half of his jester hat. The car ride between the QuackWerks' office building and his apartment was just a good ten minutes, traffic permitting, and the ride was already two minutes in.

 _You should say something. You're alone with her, and it's going to be an awkward car ride if you don't so much as acknowledge she's helping you out. You're being rude otherwise._

QuackerJack clenched his teeth and made a straight face, really starting to get internally annoyed at the calm, persistent voice in the back of his mind that kept encouraging him to talk to this lady. In fact, the way he saw it, that little voice is the indirect reason why he had stepped on those discarded jacks, tripped over his chair, landed in the wagon and knocked everything off the shelves and got hit with the Magic 8-Ball. If it hadn't been urging him to speak to her, he would still be at the office, working on toy designs.

Still... It had a point. Silent car rides were awkward, and he had a chance right now to talk a little, so why not?

"So, how long have you been working for QuackWerks?"

She had beat him to it. Darn it all...

"... About a couple months, I think." He said, lifting the ice pack and touching the injury carefully to see how it was doing. "You?"

"I just started last month." She said. "I'm Claire, by the way."

 _That's a nice name, I like that..._

"... Probably no point in introducing myself, but I'm QuackerJack." He said, flinching internally. He was worried that his prior reputation proceeded him, and that introducing himself as such already ruined everything. But, of course, it was better to be up front. "... Everyone at the office just calls me 'Jack'."

"I thought your name was familiar."

QuackerJack felt his spine go stiff and he felt himself go in panic mode.

Maybe the car was going slow enough right now, he could get the seat belt off, open the door and roll out and make a run for it? He knew how to roll in a ball, he just had to make sure to cover his head...

No, the car was going at least thirty miles per hour down a main street, and the asphalt was very rough and bumpy in this part of town. Also, he still had to go back to work anyway. There was no way he could do this and not have to acknowledge it later. Plus, his supervisor would probably chew him out for escaping a moving vehicle after already having a mild concussion.

"... Oh?" Was what he finally managed, hoping the expression he had on his face wasn't obviously saying he was screaming internally. Those stupid butterflies in his stomach were back with a vengeance.

"Yeah, wasn't there a toy company years ago?" Claire said, oblivious to QuackerJack's incredious look. "No wonder you're in the toy department now, that's something you're really good at."

QuackerJack stared dumbly. Of all the things to connect his name to, and _that_ was the first thing she thought of? He would have figured that his numerous escapades, clashes with Darkwing Duck, and incalculable wanton damages to the city over the years from his "products" would have sprung to mind first.

He was honestly relieved. So, so very relieved. In fact, it tickled him so much that he could help but snicker before he burst into relieved laughter, still holding the ice pack to his head, wheezing and gasping between breaths as he wiped at his eyes with the heel of the palm of his free hand.

"Oh, man! I can't tell you how much off my chest that is!" He waved the aforementioned hand halfheartedly as he tried to stifle the laughter. "Seriously, this is going to sound silly, but I've been worried for weeks that you'd think I was just some crazy guy they pulled off the streets for this job. I mean, it's not entirely wrong, but oh geeze, you wouldn't believe how long I've been trying to figure out how to break the ice here. In fact, the whole reason I even tripped was because I got up to say hello and stepped on those jacks I left on the floor."

He snorted involuntarily.

Then his face fell, and his eyes went wide.

"... And here I am, laughing and talking like a crazy person, oh, man, why did I just say that, what did I just do..?" He said shrilly and dropped the ice pack, then grabbed his hat from force of habit.

"No, no, no, its fine, really!" Claire reassured quickly, looking more like she was concerned about his state of comfort with the conversation than the fact that she was currently carpooling with one of St. Canard's former most notorious. "I know all about the rehabilitation program, and I think that's great that you're working on bettering yourself. I can tell that you're pretty popular around the office, so you're pretty serious about it."

QuackerJack gawked at her as he awkwardly reached for the ice pack from the floor space of the car, then plopped it back on his head.

"... Oh, so... You do know about all that..." There was a bit of a note of deflation in his tone of voice. "... Okay, then..."

He glanced out the car window and saw that they were pulling into the apartment parking structure now. Ten minutes went by pretty fast.

"... Thanks, by the way." He mumbled. "... I guess I'll probably see you tomorrow if I'm allowed back to work, otherwise it's probably when my supervisor says I've had a long enough break."

"Which apartment is yours? I hope you don't have to climb any of those stairs, some of those look pretty high up."

"... Um, I'm on the third floor, so it's not that far. There's an elevator, actually."

"I'll walk you there, then. It wouldn't be very polite of me to just leave you out here and drive off when you've still got the ice pack to your head."

QuackerJack felt his face heat up again. He hadn't expected the day to have turned out this way, all he wanted to do was talk to her, and now here he was, at the parking structure for the apartments, holding a rapidly melting ice pack to his head. The afternoon sun was gleaming off the parked vehicles and windows of the surrounding buildings, and he was squinting and wondering if the expression he was making against the light was flattering at all.

"... You really don't have to." He said.

"No, really, I should." She insisted. "At the very least, I should hang around until you get settled in. Just to be sure you're alright."

"I've had worse, honestly." He said, not exactly sure why he was trying to avoid her now. This was such a perfect opportunity to talk with her, and he couldn't help but feel like he'd been stricken with the worst case of social anxiety he could ever recall having. "... Thanks very much, but I think I'll be fine."

"You're very persistent, aren't you?"

"I could say the same for you." QuackerJack said with a faint hint of a laugh. "I'll give you that, most people would have given up by now and headed off."

"Really, that's a bit sad to hear." Claire said, causing QuackerJack to be taken aback. "No one should be left alone when they need help. Do you have a roommate who can check in on you, or do you just live here by yourself?"

"... It's a studio apartment, I'm by myself here."

"Well, now I _can't_ just leave you here all by yourself, then."

The heat in his face was almost unbearable now. He wondered if blushing too much, too often, would start boiling his brain, because he was starting to feel giddy and he was not sure if that was due to conk in the head, or because this whole encounter was taxing on him emotionally.

It was then that he realized that he had made it to the elevator with her still in his company.

 _Well, this is what you wanted, wasn't it? You wanted to talk to her, and now you've got it. And look at you; this is going to be your first guest you've let in your apartment that wasn't management; you're socializing, how nice._

That was when it occurred to QuackerJack that he wasn't even sure if he had even left the apartment in a fit state for visitors. Not that he was incredibly messy, in fact he had a bit of a system to his chaotic organization, but he was very much sure that he'd left far too many blank sticky notes plastered around the apartment as an odd sort of therapeutic de-stressing that he couldn't even begin to explain. He just liked to peel the pages apart and hear the noise of the adhesive lifting away from a surface. And he liked to arrange the colorful squares in fun patterns, usually to help visualize a new idea forming in his brain that hadn't formed enough to be scribbled out.

To someone who probably didn't understand the concept of "stimming", this display would surely cause an eyebrow to be raised.

And sure enough, he had forgotten to take the sticky notes down, so he was left feeling embarrassed as he dropped the half melted ice pack to the floor and quickly scurried about to try and remove as many as possible before questions were asked.

"... What are you doing?"

"S-sorry, I, um... I just like to... I-It's therapeutic..." He mumbled nonsensically, realizing that hadn't explained anything at all. He cursed under his breath, and paused mid-removal on one sticky note when the dull ache in his head flared up more fiercely. This physically stunned him and the haphazard adhered stack of sticky notes in his hand dropped to the floor as he threw his hand to his head and clutched at the painfully bruised bump. "Ah! Geeze, that's not a good feeling, ow..."

"Are you sure you're alright? I could take you to the hospital if you think you need to."

 _Geeze, this is turning into a mess. I finally get a chance to talk to her, and I end up getting a head injury. Not how I imagined it was going to go..._

"I really shouldn't have moved that fast, that's all." He said, squinting. Well, at the very least, his vision was still clear (despite the being a bit agitated by the glimmer of light through the window shades), so he didn't have to worry too much. So long as he wasn't seeing double or feeling nauseated or disoriented, he'd be fine. "I just have a low pain tolerance, really. I think I just have to sleep this off."

"Then let me at least give you my number, in case you need anything." Claire insisted. "I'd feel terrible if I didn't."

QuackerJack blinked. Was this really happening? Was he really being given her phone number, and he didn't even have to ask?

"... Alright, let me just find something to write in down on..." He said, opening a draw and shuffling around the contents for a pen. "... Darn it, I think I'm out of... pa... per..." He trailed off when he looked up at the wall in front of him and realized that the likely reason for that was because he'd taken all the sticky notes and plastered them all over the wall. "... Nevermind, silly me..."

"Actually, I could just put my number in your phone, then text mine and then I'd have your number."

"... No kidding?" QuackerJack hadn't even been aware that was a thing he could do. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone and handed it to her. "I don't use that thing very much, I really just use it to make calls."

"You don't have any games on it or anything? This is a pretty fancy phone."

"... I don't like video games, they're the reason I went bankrupt."

"Oh, oh my, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you." Claire quickly backpedaled when she realized how bitter and crestfallen his tone of voice was. "I guess something like that would definitely ruin the idea for someone..."

"... Eh, that's fine, you didn't know..." He sighed, then smiled weakly when he was handed his phone back once it was all set up. "Thanks, by the way, I probably wouldn't have been able to drive here by myself anyway, at least not very safely."

 _Look at you, making small talk, that's good, you're doing good, someone mentioned video games and you didn't have a fit, you're doing so good._

"Are you sure you'll be alright by yourself?" Claire asked, eyeing his body language carefully for any signs of concern. "I mean, you were unconscious for a couple minutes, that thing had to have hit you pretty hard."

"Believe me, I've had worse. I've actually been under an avalanche of pretty much a whole stock of toys, that little thing earlier wasn't that bad." QuackerJack instead, waving a hand in the air as if to swat away the thought. "If it'll make you feel better, I'll check in with you, or you can call me if you feel like you should check on me."

"It just doesn't feel right to leave you all by yourself here."

"I'm used to it, trust me." He assured, laughing nervously under his breath.

After much back and forth, QuackerJack was beginning to wonder if this encounter had an end in sight (not that he was wanting to be rude about it, he just wanted to retreat to the quiet sanctity of his apartment after this harrowing day), but finally, he was able to wave goodbye to Claire, and shut his door.

He wasn't sure why, but he found himself pulling back the drawn shades of the window so he could watch her head to her car, and in the back of his mind, it occurred to him that his own vehicle was still parked at the office.

Whoops.

Aw, well.

He waited until the car was out of sight and then stepped away from the window to go ahead and take care of himself.

Partway through boiling water for tea, it suddenly struck him that he'd not only managed to learn her name, but he'd also managed to exchange phone numbers without realizing it. Out of curiosity, he tapped the icon for texting and saw that her test text had referred to him as "Jacky".

He didn't know why, but that made him smile.

The tea kettle whistled loudly and he dropped his phone in surprise, a bit baffled as to how he managed to ignore the kettle enough for it to get that loud.

* * *

And so ends the first chapter of who knows how many, of this little tale.

A couple notes:

1\. QuackerJack's incident with the Magic 8-Ball is a bit of a personal tounge-in-cheek nod to my incredibly horrible luck in getting beaned in the head with the oddest things. More times to count than I have fingers, twice over. I got stories, ha.

2\. After a few toss arounds, I decided to go with Claire's occupation in QuackWerks being mail room clerk. It allows for her to be active enough in QuackerJack's work floor, but vague enough that I don't have to think too hard on it. Plus, it gives the excuse for there to be a time window each day for encounters.


	2. Chapter 2

Alright, so this kinda took a while longer than I wanted, but in addition to other things happening (not to mention my short attention span sometimes), I also had to go through a few drafts on some of these scenes before I was satisfied.

Oh, and yo, guess what? I managed to get ahold of most of the run of the Darkwing Duck comics as physical copies (Definitively Dangerous Edition and Vol 1-2 of the Joe Books revival), and just need to get the ever elusive "Dangerous Currency" for it to be considered a complete set. How lovely. Yay.

There's just some nice about having physical pages to touch and turn, y'know? Anyway, I got more comments to add, but I'm putting them at the bottom of the page here.

Enjoy chapter two. :D

* * *

"You're a bit quieter than usual, Mr. QuackerJack."

He looked up from the notebook at the weasel lady, his psychiatrist, Ms. Mustela.

"... I just don't have much to share, it's only been a couple weeks since the last session." He said. "And please, call me 'Jack'."

"How are you doing since that head injury last week?"

"... I... Did... Did I tell you about that? I don't think I've said a word about the incident..." QuackerJack was confused. "Yeah, I'm absolutely sure that I haven't said a thing about that..."

"It's in your medical records." Ms. Mustela said, flipping through the folder of papers. "It was honestly a good thing that you went in for that check up; concussions can often turn nasty if there's no monitoring or follow up."

"To be honest, the only reason I went in was for what turned out to be a sinus headache. But, of course, because I got hit with a Magic 8-Ball there, everyone was concerned that that was the cause." QuackerJack shrugged, looking back at the notebook and scribbling in it with a pen. "The sinus pressure was unrelated to the concussion; it's just seasonal allergies to pollen. The trees are just dropping the stuff everywhere, and the wind is just blowing it all around. Nothing a little antihistamine can't help manage."

"How did you manage to get hit with a Magic 8-Ball?" Ms. Mustela seemed incredulous. "That's such a specific item, and certainly not one that you'd expect to get hit by."

"... I tripped."

"Into... a Magic 8-Ball?"

"No, no, I tripped and it led to it falling on me." QuackerJack closed the notebook and stuck the pen in the spiral ring. "Actually, it was more like I stepped on some metal jacks I left on the floor, and I jumped back, tripped over my chair, landed in a red wagon that hit the wall, jarred a bunch of shelves, and the Magic 8-Ball was the last thing to roll off and it hit me square in the head, right here." He tapped two fingers gently on the space between his eyebrows. "... I have a very packed cubicle of stuff." He added, seeing her baffled look.

"Goodness."

"I'll say. I've moved the thing to a much lower shelf now, so I don't plan on doing that again anytime soon."

"Well, as long as you're alright, that's what's most important." Ms. Mustela shook her head lightly in an action of amazement. "You've brought along a notebook this time, I see."

"Yep."

"And you were just adding to it."

"Uh-huh."

"... Any reason as to why you've brought it along?"

"Mostly just to see if you'd ask about it." There was a hint of teasing in his tone of voice.

" _Jack._ "

"I'm kidding. Mostly. It's still a secret, though." He laughed. "Actually, I meant to leave it in the car, but I forgot it was in my hands and by the time I realized it, I was already halfway across the parking lot, so here we are."

"Fair enough." Ms. Mustela sighed inwardly. "So, who is this 'Claire'?"

"Bah?" QuackerJack dropped the notebook in surprise. "How did-?"

"You have a phone number and name scrawled on the back cover of your notebook."

The duck snatched up the notebook from the floor and flipped it over as if he needed to confirm that, and yes, in his messy penmanship, he did indeed scribe the name and number on the cardboard backing. He honestly had forgotten that he'd done that, but he had wanted to be sure that he did not lose her number.

"Oh. That. She's a friend at work." He knew his face was blushing again, and he hated that. "She was the one that drove me to my apartment after I got hit with that Magic 8-Ball."

"A friend? That's nice, I'm glad to hear that."

"Hey, I have other friends over there. There's Rick and..." QuackerJack started before he paused and stuck his tongue out playfully. "You almost got me talking about stuff, sneaky, sneaky."

"That's my job, Jack. I'm supposed to get you to talk about yourself." Ms. Mustela laughed.

"And you've been trying ever since I came here the first time."

"Anything from you is considered progress, I hope you realize that."

"I reiterate: Sneaky."

"So, what about Claire? You have her phone number written down, so she must be something."

The redness in QuackerJack's face seemed to deepen to the shade of a raspberry.

"She's just a friend from work!" He squawked defensively, but his body language gave it away that he clearly felt something a bit more than that. "She brings the mail to my floor, and I see her every day, just a friend!"

"Okay, then, she's just a friend."

"... You're really not going to question that further?"

"My job is to listen to you when you want to talk, not put words in your mouth."

"... Alright, then, that's all you're getting out of me."

"Okay." Was the simple answer from Ms. Mustela.

"... I can't help but feel like this is some reverse psychology thing to trick me into talking more."

"And what makes you say that?"

"There!" He clapped his hands once as if he just figured out what was going on, and pointed accusingly. "That's the sort of thing I'm talking about! You're doing that thing again!"

"And yet, you seem to be talking more than you intended..."

"..."

"..."

"... Sneaky."

* * *

"Jaaaaack, buddy, hey, good to have you back!"

"... Thanks, Rick."

"You really have to stop scaring us like that, y'know."

"It was just a sinus pressure headache, it wasn't like I was dying." QuackerJack said in a mildly affronted tone. "You all worry too much about me; I don't think anyone else around here gets as much attention as I get."

"Because no one else trips over half the stuff you do." Rick shrugged. "You have to admit that you have a tendency to not be mindful of your surroundings, I mean, this wasn't the first time you didn't pay attention to what was behind you."

"But, it _was_ the first time I've been attacked by a Magic 8-Ball." QuackerJack countered.

"See, that's just the thing, Jack. That had some real weight to it; you could have been hurt way worse."

"But, I wasn't, so it's all fine now." QuackerJack turned a little in his chair.

"I'm just saying, maybe it wouldn't hurt to clean up your workspace somewhat, it's clearly a bit of a safety hazard." Rick said, scratching his head. "Yeah, you got out of it alright this time, but maybe next time won't be so lucky?"

"... My workspace is fine, Rick." QuackerJack was beginning to feel personally attacked, and he wasn't sure why he felt that way. He inhaled carefully and added: "Alright, then, I'll pick the jacks up from the floor, but the wagon stays. Everything stays. Don't touch anything."

"Alright, _alright_. Just be more careful next time, then." Rick seemed to be able to tell that QuackerJack was feeling backed into a corner, and while he knew that QuackerJack was working very hard at maintaining a handle on his low tolerance for frustration ("anger management", if you will), Rick also knew he shouldn't keep poking QuackerJack with a stick. "Y'know, a lot of people around here do care about what goes on with you, Jack. I don't know if you noticed how many of us were crowded around the couch, but at least half the floor. The rest were waiting outside the break room for updates, because we couldn't fit everyone in there."

"... Oh." QuackerJack said quietly, dropping his gaze to his feet, which he was kicking idly. "... That... That is a lot of people."

"So, anyway, how'd it go?"

"... How did what go?"

"You got to talk to her, right?"

"I had a _concussion_." QuackerJack raised his eyebrows in surprise. "There really wasn't much talking beyond introductions and her insisting that I go to the hospital to get checked out further."

"Didn't she give you her number?"

"Yeah, we swapped because she was adamant that she could at least check on me after all this."

"So, she likes you, then?"

"What?"

"You swapped numbers, she's gotta like you, then."

"... I... wait ... what?" It hadn't really occurred to him that she might have liked him back. The whole idea was so foreign to him, and he couldn't grasp the concept that someone could reciprocate the sentiment. He blinked and blinked and blinked. "... That has to be a... a mistake..."

"Oh, my goodness, Jack, you've really never been infatuated before now, have you?"

"No!" Was the emphatic answer the buck toothed duck gave, as if he'd explained so more than enough. "I don't even understand it! Is it good, is it bad, why is this happening to me! I don't like this, it's so confusing! Is-Is she planning something! Should I be worried! Why would she be interested in _me!_ "

"Whoa, slow down and breathe, first up." Rick held up his hands. "Second, believe it or not, you're very likable. She probably likes you because of _that._ "

QuackerJack blinked several times, eyes darting around the room, practically trailing everywhere except actually staring Rick eye-to-eye. It was clear that he was having trouble processing that information, and that fact alone was distressing him.

"... I... That's a lot to... I... uh... I think I'm gonna be... I need to _lie down..._ " QuackerJack's voice got shrill in the way one's voice does when the wind gets knocked out of thier lungs. He appeared to be on the verge of an existential crisis, and it didn't take him long to slide out of his chair and under his desk, knees to his chest and arms wrapped around them, eyes wide and teeth chattering.

Rick peered around the corner the moment QuackerJack disappeared from sight and clenched his teeth awkwardly as he put a hand to his head, wondering if he said the wrong thing.

"That's not a bad thing, you know?" He offered as QuackerJack looked up at him the moment he said something. "I mean, I wouldn't mind if someone was interested in me like that; as much as QuackWerks works us to the end of the shift, I hardly have the time or energy to have that kind of luck, much less go around flirting with everyone until I find a catch."

"... That's the thing, Rick. There's so many working on this floor, why me out of all of them?"

"You're going to have to ask her, I know about as much as you, maybe less."

" _... I think I'm gonna throw up..._ " QuackerJack squeaked, with a very uncomfortable expression crossing his face, shudering and looking a bit pale.

"Yikes, okay, I'll get the wastebasket for ya." Rick said in such a tone, one might assume that this wasn't the first time he'd done this for his coworker. "Gee, that's really got you in a bundle of nerves, doesn't it?"

Rick took the fact that QuackerJack had his mouth clamped shut so tightly, that his prominent teeth weren't visible, as a sign that the possible answer was "Yes."

"Alright then, but before you lose it in the trash can, try those breathing exercises first, you might be able to get yourself to calm down enough that you won't need it, Jack." Rick advised, still handing QuackerJack the wastebasket anyway. "Because otherwise, you know our supervisor is going to force you to take the rest of the day off, and we all know how much you hate missing a day at work."

There was a bit of silence before QuackerJack took a steady breath and counted to himself quietly, eyes closed. It must have worked, because after a couple of minutes, the color came back to his face and he opened his mouth to take a particularly deep breath before he eased his eyes open.

"... I honestly forgot about that trick..." He mumbled, giving a shaky grin. "... Thanks, Rick."

* * *

The sensation of falling and the sudden jolt of a floor making contact with him jarred him awake and QuackerJack stared ahead in a state of confusion as his brain buzzed with thought after thought.

The first thing he noticed was that he was on the floor beside the bed, and was laying on his front, in an awkward sort of position in which his left foot was in the air and the top sheet was wrapped and twisted around it as if ensnaring him. If he could have thought clearly at the moment, he might have considered the possibility that he had merely rolled over one too many times and got wound up, but his mind was still in a half-asleep daze, and instead, he perceived it as some sort of restraint or whatever (it's hard to really decode what goes on in that head), and he screamed shrilly, clawing at the floor in a panic.

A handful of carpet flooring gripped tightly in his hands and a quick pull launched him forward and headfirst into the nightstand that was hardly a foot from him, and the sudden thump on his head rudely jarred him completely awake. Holding a hand to his head, QuackerJack frowned to himself as his eyes trailed to the top sheet wrapped around his ankle. He huffed and pulled it loose, borderline disgusted with himself for having reacted as such.

 _You're an absolute mess sometimes, you know that?_

"... Oh, shut up." He mumbled to no one in particular, and stood up from the floor, realizing now that his jester hat, that he wore practically every waking and sleeping minute, had slipped from his head and was laying on the bed.

He had honestly felt like there was an unusual draft on his head, and he'd glimpsed his reflection on the glass screen of the television, which was why he'd even realized it. He couldn't explain it, but he always disliked how odd he looked without his hat. Maybe he was so used to wearing it, that he just wasn't used to seeing himself without it anymore...

His messy head feathers at the moment had that sort of look when oils, and what-have-you, made the barbules separate and gave him an unkempt texture in his head. Well, then, looks like it was time to shampoo stuff again... This humid St. Canardian summer made this happen more often than he liked.

 _You might feel better if you get that grime off you._

He would have ignored that thought if not for the fact that it was a fair point. He wasn't necessarily "filthy", but some extra preening than usual couldn't hurt. Especially when the unusually warm summer air was making him sweat by midday.

Within a half an hour, he was now walking back into the main room of the apartment, ruffling his head feathers with a towel. He wasn't intending on any particular way of preening, as he was just going to slip his hat back on soon enough anyway.

Perhaps it was worth mentioning that he certainly hadn't forgotten his rude awakening, and he was actually trying to push it to the back of his mind.

"... Bananas don't scream..." He muttered under his breath, tossing the towel over the shower curtain rod to dry.

QuackerJack continued to repeat that to himself as he went through his morning routine, following the directions scribbled on his strategically placed sticky notes.

He froze suddenly and stared at one in particular that was bent at the corner and was scrawled on in very messy penmanship, and sat on the top of the bedside table. The words had clearly been written while the paper was stuck to the surface, as the pen marks bled off the small square sheet, as if it had been roughly scribbled on without much care or proper pen holding.

 _Help Jack_

This almost made his med pill stick in his throat when he inhaled sharply before he had finished swallowing, and he coughed and quickly snatched the adhered paper off the surface, and balled it up into a tiny crumpled mess, trying hard to not think about it or what it meant or why it was there or how to interpret it. Whether it was a statement, a request or a plea, he didn't know nor did he want to care.

He threw it in the wastebasket, then pulled a container of cleaning wipes out from under the sink and scrubbed the stray pen marks away. He found a discarded pen on the floor that had rolled under the bed, and he threw it across the room, barely caring that it was now behind the TV stand.

"Not doing this, not doing this, I'm just going to go outside and I'm going to go into town and maybe I should go to the store, do I need anything right now, what was in the fridge again..?"

He was in denial. He wasn't willing to believe that he'd been able to hold a pen and write something while he'd been asleep. He did not want to think about what else could be possible without him being even aware he had done it.

 _Strangely enough, that's not necessarily an indication of being crazy, if you'd believe that..._

"... I'm not believing that because I'm just talking to myself, and I'm just hearing what I want to be told." QuackerJack huffed to himself, pulling the blinds open on the window to let in some light, as if hoping that the sunshine was going to dispel any bad vibes lingering about. "That's what happens when I spend too much time by myself here in an apartment in a complex filled to the brim with noisy neighbors and I _start trying to drown everyone out!_ "

He was almost shouting now. Once he realized that he was likely overreacting, he took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled slowly.

"... It's nice out, I should be outside, this is cabin fever setting in, is all..."

 _Now, there's a good idea._

* * *

It wasn't. It honestly wasn't.

He shoved his door open roughly and slammed it shut before he fumbled with the lock and put his back to the door and slid down to the floor, gasping heavily as he buried his face in his hands. He was shaking and felt as if he'd been emotionally suckerpunched in the stomach.

To be quite frank, it had all started out just fine. It was nice outside. A little humid, maybe, but it was sunny, bright and abuzz with activity with many, many lively people.

He couldn't place exactly where it went wrong. But he assumed it was either the sudden overwhelming anxiety that had arisen from overhearing people recognize him, or maybe it was that he'd seen a child carrying a banana shaped doll (it was a simple banana shape, no legs or arms, but it was still a banana with a goofy face) that had been won in an arcade crane game.

The very sight of a plush plantain had triggered such an overwhelming sensation of misery and guilt that he just had to get out of downtown shopping district before he made a scene, as he had felt that he was incredibly close to screaming.

He felt like he was drowning, but he knew it was strange to think that because he wasn't even in the water.

 _... You gave it a good try, though._

He calmly stood up, crossed the apartment, grabbed a pillow from the bed, inhaled deeply, buried his face in it and screamed.

 _Feel better?_

"... I'm just asking myself, I don't even know why you're bothering telling me anything I don't know yet..." QuackerJack said before flinching, as he pulled the pillow from his face. "Aaaaaand I'm talking to myself again."

No response. Maybe he was overreacting, maybe it was just him thinking aloud. Normal people do that, right?

He felt his phone suddenly buzz and beep in his pocket and he jumped, startled. He'd forgotten that he was even carrying it, so he dropped the pillow in his hands and cautiously retrieved his phone, wondering who'd even be bothering to contact him, especially at this time.

Taking it out with shaky hands, he unlocked it with a swipe and look of utter confusion on his face as he stared at the screen.

It was a text message.

 _Hey, Jacky, it's Claire. Are you alright? Saw you run by, you looked upset._

He continued to gawk at the screen, his mind starting to reel. Oh, no. No. No no. She'd seen him, and he'd been in a less than stellar state. He hadn't even seen her, oh man, where had she been, he could have practically been right beside her for all he knew, when was this, was this before or after he frantically shoved his way out of the busy crowd in a panic?

He bit his lip and felt a whimper get caught in his throat. What was wrong with him? Why was he even getting this upset, it was just a text message, she could have simply seen him closer to the apartment than the shopping district.

Besides, the tone the message seemed to imply was that she was just concerned about how distraught he must have appeared.

He responded truthfully. After all, he had no reason to lie.

 _No._

He waited, beginning to regret touching the "send" button as the seconds passed. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything, maybe he should have just brushed it off and said he was fine. Though, he supposed the positive thing about talking through texts is that no one could hear the distress in his voice...

The phone buzzed in his hands again, and it took him more than a second or two to realize that he was hearing the ringtone (which was the default) chiming as well.

She was calling him.

He wasn't prepared for this, he had no idea what he was supposed to do or say. His head felt like it was spinning from vertigo, and he dropped himself heavily in a slumped sitting position on the bed as he stared at the phone like it might blow up in his hands if he didn't respond soon enough.

Hesitantly, he pushed his finger against the screen and slid it across, unlocking it so he could answer. He held the phone to his ear and could only breath in and out in a mildly concerning rhythm as he squeaked out in a low voice: "... Huh... Hello..?"

"Jacky, are you alright?"

It took him about half a minute (during which, the question was repeated with some variance at least twice), but he finally managed to speak again.

"... Honestly, no... I've been having a terrible day..." He mumbled, rubbing at his tired and irritated eyes. "Just terrible, everything is terrible, I feel terrible, today just started out terrible, it's just a terrible, terrible day..."

There was some silence, and he wondered for a moment if perhaps he'd unloaded far too much information to what essentially equated to a workplace acquaintance to him. He was surprised by the response he gotten once she recovered.

"... You want to just talk?"

"... Huh?"

"It doesn't have to be about that, even. We could just chat." Claire clarified. "You sound like you need a friend right now."

The fingers on one hand tightened around the phone as he involuntarily reached his other hand for his chest when a brief pang shot through it. Brief, but strong enough to knock the wind out of his lungs. He was grateful that he was already sitting down, because he was almost certain his legs would have given out from the shock of that immediate, overwhelming sensation of misery.

He gave a weak cough to catch his breath and responded once he recovered.

"... You have no idea..." His voice was unusually soft, and sounded almost wobbly, if that was possible. He fell backwards on the bed and looked up at the ceiling. "... You really don't..."

"Try me."

"... What?"

"Just talk, I'll listen."

QuackerJack had to take a moment to switch the phone over to his other hand, as the one gripping it was beginning to cramp from holding it so tightly.

He pondered to himself as to how exactly he'd be able to explain to someone like her about his intense emotional attachment to a sawdust filled doll, and that he was practically still grieving over the loss of his beloved doll. How would he even begin to explain that the reason he was so upset right now was because some random toy stirred up some deep emotional trauma he had been shoving on the back burner for weeks and weeks instead of properly dealing with it?

"... I... I had a friend..." He decided to give it a try anyway. "... He was a doll I had made, and... Oh, this is stupid, the more I say it out loud, the more crazy I sound!"

He slapped a hand to his face and heaved a sigh and before he knew it, he had launched into a sort of small scale rant as what was heavy on his mind spilled out.

"I can't even properly mourn losing him because 'Oh, Jack, he wasn't real.' or 'That's a bit silly to be that attached to a doll, don't you think?'" He couldn't stop, and there was a building dread in the back of his head that he was certain that he was ruining any chance he had to befriend this lady duck by talking about how emotionally damaged he was for having his toy banana ripped from him. "He was real enough to me! I-I wasn't ready t-to let him go; he was taken from me! Just _thinking_ about it makes my chest hurt, ah-and-! And-!"

He was now painfully aware that he was the only one talking, and a horrible sick sensation stirred up when he considered that he perhaps had said too much.

"... I-I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything, I..." He stammered, grateful at least that she couldn't see the absolute distressed mess he must have looked like at the moment. "I... I, uh... Bye!"

QuackerJack panicked and wrenched open the bedside table drawer, then dropped his phone in it, realizing a bit too late that he hadn't even hung up before he shoved the drawer closed. There was a muffled chatter, then a beep, then brief silence before the ringtone chirped through the wood. She must have hung up and called back.

He tried to ignore it.

Silence. Then the ringtone again.

He turned on the TV, to any noisy channel, and pressed down on the volume control on the remote to try to tune out the phone.

It just kept ringing.

After what felt like forever, it finally stopped. Part of him almost wanted her to keep trying, but like everyone else, it seems like she gave up on trying to reach him.

He didn't want to open the drawer just yet, so he just stared at the TV with the utmost concentration. He snuffled, then wiped at his eyes, knowing he wasn't too far away from turning his face into a hot mess of tears.

A sudden series of knocks at the apartment door made him jolt with a strangled shout, and he stared at it with a dumbfounded expression.

"Jacky?" It was Claire. More knocking accompanied more words. "Are you in there? Are you alright? Talk to me!"

He continued to stare at the door as he slid off the bed and hesitantly crossed the room, listening to her knock at the door and call out to him.

He could very well just stay quiet, and wait until she gave up and left, but he figured that would be difficult when he had the TV cranked up to such a loud enough volume that'd it'd be rather difficult to feign that the apartments was deserted.

He cautiously peered through the peephole of the door, although he really didn't know why he was bothering to confirm it was her on the other side when it was so clearly was.

She was at his door. She was here in the apartment complex. She'd most certainly must have ventured across town to get here. She'd been calling his phone repeatedly. She had texted him to begin with.

For him. She was concerned about him. All this was just to be sure he was alright.

He reached for the door chain and slid it off the track, then twisted the deadbolt to the side to disengage the lock. He stepped to the side so he could pull the door open, and he simply stared as Claire stopped in mid-knock, hand still in the air when she realized that he'd finally opened the door.

"... You probably shouldn't be in the hall by yourself; I'm not the only ex-criminal living here, and not all them are polite..." Was the first thing he mumbled, and he awkwardly signaled for her to step in.

"You stopped answering your phone, I got worried." She took the invitation and followed him as QuackerJack pushed the door closed, but he didn't bother with the locks this time.

"Why?" He was genuinely curious as to why she'd find that an issue.

"I told you; you sound like you need a friend right now."

"I don't see the correlation to me not answering my phone." QuackerJack was mildly confused, but he was going to work hard at trying to keep his voice level, mostly because he was on the verge of losing it. He sat on the bed, and looked down at the floor. "... I shouldn't have said anything, it's nothing you need to worry about."

"It's clearly eating you up inside." Claire said, taking a seat at the chair at foot of the bed, scooting it a bit to face him. "You said you had a doll that was your friend. And you said you lost him. That sounds like it was traumatic."

"... The more I hear that said aloud, the more insane it really sounds to me." QuackerJack lifted his head and narrowed his eyes. "... It wasn't like I had him as a kid, you know? I made him before my company died, and he was my most favorite thing ever until about a year ago, when... he... he was..."

QuackerJack started shivering, and he threw his head back in an overly dramatic gasp, which he held with puffed cheeks, as if trying to physically stop himself from talking.

"... You didn't just lose him, someone took him from you, didn't they?"

Somehow, QuackerJack managed to choke on just plain air. He wasn't even sure how he'd done it, but it might have been almost impressive if he wasn't feeling so miserable.

"*hack* How do you-?" He managed after a brief coughing fit.

"You kind of said that over the phone before you freaked out and hung up." Claire shrugged. "I said I'd listen."

"... And... The idea of me talking like he was alive when he was really just a doll doesn't creep you out..?"

"... Let's just focus on your problems right now, and talk about mine later."

He just stared at her, clearly confused.

"So, tell me more about your doll friend?" Claire added sheepishly, most likely having not expected that sort of response.

"... Why do you want to know?" He said quietly. There was now a clear defensive tone in his voice. "... No one has asked me that before."

"Really?"

"I mean, I'm a guy who dresses like a clown and talks to a doll, it probably scares them." He said, before swiftly correcting himself with a hand to his head. " _Talked._ Talked to a doll."

"It's certainly... different, but everyone has thier quirks."

"... Sometimes, he talked back." QuackerJack added tentatively, as if testing how far he could get before she'd effectively bail on this attempt to interact with him. "At least, I thought he did. Like... You know how ventriloquists do that thing? Like that, but half the time, I forgot I was the one making the noise. He was there when I went bankrupt and lost my mind for a while. He was always there, and would always listen because I knew he'd listen..."

"Does this doll have a name?"

"Wow, nothing is going to make you run the other way, hmm? I'm seriously talking about talking to a doll like it was alive, and you just want to know the name?" QuackerJack couldn't help but snort aloud. This entire encounter seemed so unbelievably improbable, he half considered that maybe he'd worried himself into a catatonic state and was just daydreaming this all as a defense mechanism against the emotionally traumatic event that happened earlier. "I said the doll _talked back_ to me. He was made of cloth and sawdust; that's not supposed to happen. I'm nuts. Crazy. Insane. A lunatic. A real cuckoo bird. Surely you've heard of some of the things I did a few years ago? Those got a lot of news coverage."

"You seem fine now. You wouldn't have been put to work in a toy department if they thought you were going to snap again, right?"

"Honestly, I don't know why they put me there. You'd think that'd be the last department they want me in."

"But, really, is there name for your little friend?" Claire asked again, seemingly undetered.

"... Mr. Banana Brain." QuackerJack finally said, realizing he could not remember the last time he'd actually spoke the name out loud. "He was... a banana. Actually, he was like a doll with a banana shaped head. A peeled banana, so the peel bits were kind of like hair. And he was a bit walleyed. And had a goofy smile. But, then he was... He was..." He blinked, and stared at the floor, clenching his mouth shut as a bitter taste made itself known.

Claire noticed the sudden change of demeanor, particularly when QuackerJack had brought his hands to his mouth in a cupped, self silencing gesture, eyes wide and watery. He seemed to just wilt, and his gaze started to look more unfocused as the seconds passed.

"Jacky?"

He stood up from the bed without so much as a word, and didn't acknowledge her. He stepped across the room and to the desk beside the TV stand. He pulled open the bottom drawer and grabbed a fair sized stack of papers, then sat on the floor and started to rip each leaf of paper into handmade confetti, littering the floor around him.

"... Are you alright?" Claire wasn't sure what to make of this odd behavior. It seemed harmless on the surface, but he also seemed to have forgotten that she was there. "... Jack? Mr. QuackerJack?" She tried other names she'd known him to answer to, hoping he'd look up from his paper shredding activity.

He paused in mid tear of what was probably the twentieth page and stared before he finally looked up. It took a bit longer for him to snap out of the trance and he gasped and jumped up with his hands in the air, shielding himself and looking absolutely startled. The papers he had sitting on his lap were flung and were now spread across the floor.

"Wha-? How did-? When did you get here!"

"... You let me in, remember?"

"I... I did, didn't I..?" He said in small voice and put a hand to his head, appearing disoriented. "... I'm sorry, I... Um... I forgot for a moment... What... what was I doing before I..?" He rubbed his hand along the side of his head, scrunching his face in a brief expression of discomfort. "... Oh, man, that's definitely a headache..."

"Do you need anything? I could get you an ice pack or an aspirin or something."

"Thanks, but it's going away now..." QuackerJack blinked again, this time rapidly, as if trying to clear his sight. "... I'm sorry, this is probably going to sound really odd, but I'm having a little trouble remembering what what we were talking about before now." He frowned as he thought about it. He pointed to the bed. "... I know I was sitting over there before I zoned out, so that's something, at least."

"Is that normal for you have memory lapses?" Claire said cautiously. Considering that QuackerJack had been concussed earlier in the month, she wondered if there was something that had been overlooked.

"That depends. I'm not sure entirely, because I'll only really know if someone told me, but there's a possibility." He shrugged.

He looked a little more alert now, so maybe it was an isolated event? In the confusion of everything, Claire had momentarily forgotten that he'd been both upset and defensive about this particular banana doll he seemed to be so attached to.

Once that crossed her mind again, she almost asked for more information, but thought against it when she considered that it might trigger another trance-like episode. Maybe he just wasn't physically ready to discuss it with anyone, and without realizing it, he'd repressed the memory of it while speaking about it...

Still, Claire had come to his apartment to check on him after she'd seen him in some sort of emotional panic, and he'd tried to avoid speaking with her over the phone, texting or otherwise. At the very least, she should let him know that she was here because she was concerned about him.

"You were having a bit of a bad day, and weren't answering the phone, so I came by to check on you." She said truthfully, and he tilted his head quizzically as he looked at her. "How are you feeling now?"

"Honestly? I'm not very sure." His face started to blush as it seemed like the awkward shyness that he usually had around her made itself known and reminded him how to respond. He seemed to be easing back into his usual behavior, which was a good sign. "... Oh, gee, you're actually here in my apartment, and it's a mess in here, paper everywhere, when did you get here? What time is it?" He glanced at the digital numbers on the clock radio and flinched. "... I've... kind of forgotten a whole two hours. Actually, more like I forgot most of it, I still remember some of it..." Then he added under his breath, which Claire barely heard: "... I'd expect that from Megs, aye-yi-yikes..."

Claire paused, then thought very carefully about her next move. It was very clear to her that this was certainly a strange duck, but it was also clear that whatever happened to him just before his (mandatory) employment at QuackWerks had been traumatic enough to him that he was actively trying to push that as far to the back of his unconscious mind as possible.

If anything, he seemed more wary of her then she probably should be of him, as evident by the constant attempts to inform her of his unusual "quirks". Yes, he was odd, and she was certainly aware of his prior "occupation" by now, but he seemed so well liked and friendly around the office that it was honestly difficult for her to visualize him as the insane havok wreaking toy making clown that he had the reputation of being before being employed.

He was clearly trying to turn over a new leaf, and it was obvious that he was positively paranoid about preconceived notions based on his past.

He was damaged.

Someone had hurt him, maybe even by doing so with this particular doll that seemed so intertwined in his past.

He really just needed a friend. Not just the coworkers that he spent most of the week with during the daytime, but a friend.

"The day's still going, you want to do something, like get a coffee?"

His face flushed a lovely shade of cinnabar.

"... Actually, I don't feel much like going outside right now..." He mumbled, absentmindedly reaching for the dingle dangles of his hat with both hands, tilting his head down to stare at the floor. "... When did you get here, again? I don't think you actually answered that..."

"I don't think it's even been an hour, to be honest." Claire said. "I'm sorry to hear that you haven't been having a very good day. But, when you feel up to it, maybe we should do something?"

Now that blush in his face was practically vermillion. A goofy sort of giggle escaped him, the sort of laugh one does when they're nervous, and he quickly clapped his hands over his mouth with an apologetic stare.

He seemed just so awkward and skittish. While he appeared to be very good at conversing in the workplace, it was almost as if his social skills outside of the office was so underdeveloped that he had no idea what to do when he wasn't working on a task. Probably didn't help him at all that outside of the office, he still had a prior reputation. Claire couldn't help but wonder if that was a factor in why he'd been so upset earlier, but she had no way to know, because she hadn't asked and she decided that trying to pry was really none of her business.

"I-I'm sorry! I just-! Sometimes I just laugh without warning!" QuackerJack shouted, as if he thought he might have startled her by the sudden fit of giggles. He looked like he was on the verge of tears, as if he was just absolutely mortified. "I don't know why I do that!"

"It's alright, really." Claire tried to reassure him. "Lots of people laugh at wierd times. It just happens."

He mumbled something to himself, and shook his head, as if he didn't really believe that.

"Are you going to be alright by yourself, Jacky?" Claire figured to not keep prodding at him if he was adamant at staying in his apartment. She couldn't really do much more than just suggest that he'd join her in company. "If you need anything, don't forget, you can call me."

"... Why do you keep calling me 'Jacky'?" There was now a curious air on top of his apprehension. "N-Not that I don't mind or anything, but... No one else calls me that, and you... Well, you started doing that almost right away."

The sudden change in his nervousness to being very curious was honestly a bit baffling, as if it was difficult for him to be both at the same time.

"You just seem more like a 'Jacky' to me than a 'Jack'."

"... It sounds way more friendly." He finally managed a small smile, which was the first one he'd done during this whole encounter.

A smile just seemed to fit perfectly on his face.

If it was her laugh that had made him smitten with her, then it was his smile that had her reciprocate.

* * *

And so we close up chapter two.

As a few notes:

1\. I wanted to clarify that QuackerJack is likely experiencing PTSD after Mr. Banana Brain was shredded. I don't really think he'd just ease into life while working at QuackWerks without some sort of emotional pain, considering how pivotal Mr. Banana Brain is to him. As I establish later in "White Noise", QuackerJack feels like Mr. Banana Brain was "killed". He's trying to function without him now, and it's not particularly easy.

2\. I also doubt that QuackerJack probably ever gets regular sleep because of how active his brain seems to be. Compound that onto his current issues here, and he's probably had some wierd rude awakenings.

3\. You have no idea how many things I had to either cross reference or draw from my own experiences to be able to write a semi proper nervous wreck, oh my gosh.

4\. Would you believe that this chapter was mostly brought to you by a continuous loop of some classic Britney Spears songs that were strangely relevant?


	3. Chapter 3

Ooh boy, this one probably took less time to write than the last, but it's at least just as long.

* * *

"Jack, please, remember, I'm here to help you."

QuackerJack was sitting in the large cushy chair, opposite of Ms. Mustela. He was staring at the floor with a sort of detatched expression, as if he'd been having trouble sorting out his thoughts. He blinked and took a deep breath before he finally looked up and locked eyes with the weasel.

"... I... I've been having these strange dreams lately..." He said in a small voice, breaking eye contact again. "... Half the time, I don't even remember what they're about, but when I do, it's always... there's always..."

He stopped. It was obvious that he didn't want to hear what was going to be said about what he was going to say.

"I can't force you to talk, Jack." Ms. Mustela said, not hiding the concerned expression on her face. "I'm here to listen to you when you want to talk, but I can't be the one to make you."

"... He's still there." QuackerJack said in a mildly ominous tone. He folded his arms and lifted his feet off the floor to draw his knees to his chest, and squirmed in the chair to find a more comfortable position. "... He's still there, and he's sad that I had to leave him behind..."

"Jack?"

"... If he's just an extension of me, then why can't I just bring him back? Make a new one?" There was an oddly lucid air to him now. It was a rare sight to see QuackerJack not be confused in some manner when thinking about something serious. "There's been so many varieties before I settled on this one, this one design. I'm a toy maker, I should be able to just tap into my creativity and just make a new Mr. Banana Brain, right? No one is stopping me, I could just make a new one."

"I suppose, but-"

"No, no, actually I've been really thinking about it for a while." QuackerJack interrupted her, forcing a bitter laugh out of himself. "Physically, I could. I could easily take some cloth and scissors and sawdust and thread, and get from template to final stitch in probably a day or two. But then, there's a problem with that."

Ms. Mustela scribbled something on her clipboard, and watched him.

"Oh?"

"It still won't be him. It's a bit like cloning: You could have an exact copy, but none of the memories or essence. It's a completely different entity." QuackerJack grimaced. "I could make a new Mr. Banana Brain, but it won't solve anything. It's not _him_ , it's not the same. It has to be the last design, the one that I lost, or it's not going to work. Does that make sense to you? I... I understand it on a visceral level, but I don't know how to explain it to anyone else."

"Jack-"

"Because if I could, I would. But, I don't even know where the pieces went. Someone took them before I could get back there. If he exists because I projected a personality on an otherwise ordinary doll, like an imaginary friend, then he should be still 'there', right in the back of my mind, because he's just me all this time..." QuackerJack continued, seemingly oblivious to the weasel's reaction. "But it's not going to happen, because I just can't do it. If someone was able to shred him so easily, what's going to stop it from happening again? I can't let that happen again, it's irresponsible! So I _can't_ make another one, it's not him, and I can't get attached to a new one, so he's just _trapped_ in here!" He tapped his fingers on his head to punctuate the strange point he was trying to make.

"... Jack, have you been able to get any sleep at all lately?"

"I told you, I've been having these wierd dreams, it honestly makes it a bit difficult." He realized that he was standing on the chair now, and was a bit baffled that he hadn't been told to get down, so he carefully stepped down to sit more properly. "Not for lack of trying, mind you. It's not the falling asleep part that's the issue; it's the _staying_ asleep part. I keep waking up. Sometimes, I wake up and find that I've done something that I don't really remember doing, like there's a pen on the floor and some scribbles on paper that I don't recall even doing."

"That sounds like a parasomnia of sorts, which can be caused by a wide variety of factors." Ms. Mustela put the pen down for a moment to look at him carefully. "Sometimes benign, sometimes something more deep rooted. Anything from anxiety to head injuries to even a fever can be a plausible explanation."

"... Parasomnia? That's sounds kinda spooky."

"It's an umbrella term for anything that could be disruptive to the actual action of sleep. Sleepwalking, nightmares, sleep paralysis... That sort of thing." Ms. Mustela explained. "Considering your accident at work, I'd probably have to assume that it might be linked somehow, and if that's the case, I highly recommend that you-"

"This again? I told everyone already; I'm _fine._ It's not the first time I've been clobbered in the head, it's just the first time it was a Magic 8-Ball." QuackerJack was suddenly defensive. "It's been over a month, for Pete's sake, I know everyone was worried about that, but I'm good, really. Nothing came from that."

"Jack, you understand my concern?" Ms. Mustela said in an exasperated tone. "It's my job to help you, and I can't just ignore even the slightest concern that you seem to be brushing off. At the very least, please schedule a follow up, just to be sure you're alright."

"What's the worst that can happen?"

"Honestly, I'm just going to write down the exact thing and hand it to you to look up later. So maybe it'll sink in and you'll understand why the concern."

Ms. Mustela did so, and handed him a scrap of paper with some words written on it, which he looked at with a mildly baffled expression.

"I have no idea what that is, so I guess I'll need to look that up later, then..."

"That's the idea, yes."

"... I scare you, don't I?"

"Pardon?"

"I scare you." QuackerJack said quietly. "Talking about banana dolls like they're alive, talking about doing things while I'm asleep. I'm scary, aren't I?"

"I _worry_ about you." Ms. Mustela said, putting the pen and clipboard on the desk beside her to give him her full attention. "I want more than anything to get us to the point where you don't have to come in here every other week. I want to see you succeed. You have so much potential, Jack, and you see things outside of the box. You have the ability to bring your own imagination to life, it's incredible some of the things you've made."

"... I know that I scare other people." He said, looking at the floor again. "Everyone knows who I am. It's not a problem in the office, they like me there, but... when I go outside by myself, to the store or just out for a walk... I can just tell." He heaved a sigh. "I've seen parents hold onto their kids tighter when they see me. It's subtle, but I can just feel the tension. The kids don't understand what's going on, but the parents just look at me like I'm going to snap."

"Jack, you have to understand that their apprehension is because of the past." Ms. Mustela said gently. "Change doesn't happen overnight, it's a process that takes time for everyone involved."

"I haven't done anything recently that should make them so concerned!"

"I know that. I know that you're trying, and that's really all you can do right now." The weasel was sympathetic. "St. Canardians are a cautious bunch, considering the oddities we seem to attract compared to the neighboring Duckburg. Give it time, I'm sure you'll be able to show them that you don't mean to scare them."

"I just wanted to make people smile. That's why I wanted to make toys. And I did, until video games came around." QuackerJack mumbled, staring at his hands as he twiddled his thumbs. "No one wanted to go outside anymore, and everywhere I went, it was 'Whiffle Boy' this and 'Whiffle Boy' that. It flooded the stores, all the kids wanted was video games, video games, video games..."

"I understand why you feel hurt about that, Jack."

"Do you really?" QuackerJack suddenly snapped back, and it was obvious that a sort of defensiveness was triggered in him. "I built myself a toy empire from the ground up, and for a while, I ruled the market. I dressed as a jester, but I was a toy _king._ There was a time where my name brought joy to children."

He snarled bitterly, and his eyes were beginning to glimmer with wetness.

"And now those same children have grown and they don't see me that way. They just point and whisper about the broken old clown... They think I don't hear them, or maybe they do and they don't care. But I do, I hear them, and... and..." He blinked rapidly with a confused expression, and raised a hand to his cheek, flinching when his fingertips got wet.

He realized now that he was crying. He wasn't bawling or anything, and he hadn't really changed his expression at all, but there was thick, salty, warm tears pouring steadily down his face. If anything, he was dumbfounded that he was shedding tears. He wasn't feeling particularly sad at the moment, in fact, if he could place it properly, he'd have to say that he was very, very frustrated.

"... Well, that's unusual." He snorted feebly, looking back up at Ms. Mustela, holding up his damp hand to show her, as if she couldn't have seen his face. "Usually I have to actually be _crying_ to get these. Do you see these? Do you? Am I sad? Do I look sad? I could have sworn I was getting angry, do people cry when they're mad?"

"Tears can be a physical response to intense emotions, not necessarily despair." Ms. Mustela, supportive as ever, assured him. "You are a person who feels thier emotions intensely. Whether this is something you've always been able to do, it doesn't really matter. But, anger would certainly be a source for your tears right now."

"... I don't like it." QuackerJack wiped the heel of his palm roughly against his face in an attempt to dry it. "I don't like it at all."

"Let's try to focus on something more positive, then." Ms. Mustela reached for a box of tissues and held them out for him. "How are things with your new friend? Claire, wasn't it?"

QuackerJack had a wad of tissues bunched up in his hand as he dried his face, which was beginning to flush a light shade of red.

"... Good."

"Anything else?"

"... She's nice. Really nice." He smiled bashfully as he pulled at one of the dingle dangles of his hat. He looked from side to side and leaned forward, like he was going to share a secret. He whispered in a hushed voice: " _... I think she likes me, too._ "

"Oh? You think so?"

He nodded with the same sort of enthusiasm as a child being asked if they wanted an ice cream cone.

"Yes. She doesn't think I'm scary, and I like that."

"That's good to hear, Jack."

"She calls me 'Jacky', and I like that, too." QuackerJack was grinning now, and he kicked his feet giddishly. "I really like that."

"I'd love to hear more about it, but I'm afraid we're out of time today." Ms. Mustela apologized, but she was smiling back as well, as she was pleased to hear such a positive thing now. "We'll continue this next session, maybe you'll have even more to talk about then."

QuackerJack gave a sigh of disappointment, but nodded in agreement.

"Oh, alright..."

"And don't forget to take care of yourself, please. I can't stress that enough."

"Yes, Ms. Mustela..."

* * *

He honestly tried. He just couldn't stay asleep, and it was starting to frustrate him more than anything.

Too much noise. There was just too much noise in the apartment complex. Someone's television was on, someone else had yet to pick up thier tea kettle, and there was someone's yappy dog barking echos into the night. And really... who vacuums the carpet at this hour?

Perhaps he should have invested in ear plugs.

QuackerJack was agitated, and he was desperate to get a moment's reprieve. Before he knew it, he was outside of his apartment, turning the key to lock the door and stepping his way down the stairs to take a late night walk. He didn't know where he planned to go, but he figured that if he could just clear his mind, he'd have a better chance at resting later.

He paused in midstep and looked upward at the dizzyingly tall skyscrapers of St. Canard, which towered over and crowded around the downtown district, so much so that it was always difficult to see the sky fully from this perspective.

Tonight, the moon was a crescent in the sky, and the clouds blotted out the stars. It was such a dull sight, and he hated it. It seemed like everyday, St. Canard got less and less likable, and it was just so bland and drab without the excitement of Darkwing Duck bumbling his way through patrolling the streets.

These Crimebots simply had no sense of fun, and it reminded QuackerJack of the glimpse of the dystopian future he'd seen under the vigilance of the far more serious "Darkwarrior Duck". Straight and to the point, no fun at all, and almost totalitarian.

At least Darkwing would bother to humor him. Darkwing would make it fun. And Darkwing would have never been so cruel as to do what Negaduck did to him.

A strong chill on an otherwise warm summer evening ran through him and made him shudder feverishly. Just the mere thought of his old boss prompted such a raw visceral physical response in the fibers of his being. It made him feel a little nauseous, and he tore his gaze away from the sky and quickened his pace in his steps to get back on track.

He didn't know why, but he was quietly humming a tune to himself, a familiar tune, but he seemed to forget the words, save for one verse that buzzed his brain.

 _I've got a pain in my sawdust_

 _That's what's the matter with me_

 _Something is wrong with my little inside_

 _I'm just as sick as can be_

He stopped walking again, and grimaced.

"... That's a tune I haven't thought of in a long, long time..." He mumbled to himself, shaking his head. "... Such an old one, you'd think I'd forgotten it..."

He assumed thinking of the word "sawdust" had jarred it loose, and so he tried to push it to the farthest end of his mind once more.

QuackerJack blinked and looked around in a sudden mild state of confusion. Where exactly was he going anyway? He hadn't even paid any mind to where he'd been stepping around to. What part of town was he in now..?

An overwhelming feeling of being lost made itself known, and he glanced upwards at the sky to get his bearings by identifying the largest, tallest building in the center of St. Canard. Head that way, and you'll find yourself in the main district, and as long as you follow the main road, you'll find yourself in the suburbs. It was practically like a beacon in that regard.

However, he appeared to have lost the ability to make his legs move at the moment. There was a dizzying sort of vertigo that made his vision swim, and he carefully lowered himself to the ground with a bit of a plop, and sat hunched over on the concrete curb, waiting for the sensation to pass.

He looked up and squinted to try and see through his blurry vision. It didn't take him long to realize that he was in fact in a very familiar district, and moreover one that he'd rather be anywhere but there. No wonder he was feeling so ill all of a sudden... It was stirring up memories he'd been trying to forget.

QuackerJack considered for a moment to pull his phone out of his pocket and dial up Claire for some support and perhaps to "rescue" him, but the fact that it was as late as it was in the night stopped him. How was he going to explain logically that he'd wandered off into this part of town without realizing it, and moreover, how was he going to explain why he thought calling her at this time of night was a good idea anyway?

A sour snort escaped him, and he felt as though all he could do now was simply sit on this curb, and stare at that old warehouse in a state of disconnect until he'd be able to somehow pull himself together and walk back to the apartment complex clear across town. Or maybe he could wait until the sun was up, and call Claire then..?

"... What are you doing out here?"

A voice sounded behind him and jarred him from his thoughts with such a force that he legitimately flinched and spasmed with strangled cry, before he jerked his head about to look behind him with a startled expression plastered on his face, panting quietly in sync with his rapidly beating heart.

There was an exhausted looking duck standing behind him, wearing a green sweater vest over a light pink shirt, carrying a large brown paper bag in his arms that was presumably filled with groceries, though why that would be the case at this ungodly hour, QuackerJack had no idea nor did he honestly care.

"... Do... Do I know you..?" QuackerJack managed as he finally found his ability to speak. He couldn't place it, but this duck's voice seemed to tickle the back of his mind with a sense of familiarity. Perhaps he was a face he'd seen at QuackWerks..?

"... No, but you seem to be lost there, buddy." The duck said, shifting his grip on the large paper bag. "Isn't it a bit late to be wandering the streets?"

"I should ask the same thing; who goes shopping at this hour?"

"Fair enough." The duck bit back a small smile and set the bag down, as it seemed to have gotten a little too heavy to carry at the moment. "No questions about what we were up to, then."

"Sounds good." QuackerJack nodded. It was strange... this duck's voice and demeanor seemed to satiate a sort of emptiness that had been settled in him for months. It felt like he was speaking with an old friend, but he couldn't, for the life of him, figure out why. The dizziness he'd been feeling just minutes ago was fading away.

"I have this odd feeling that you probably don't want to be here." The duck added, cleverly avoiding the decided No Questions rule.

QuackerJack squeaked a laugh.

"Not answering any questions, but yes, that's pretty much it." He felt a nervous grin spread across his face and another snicker drifted out of him. "You could say that I got a bit turned around during a night walk, and now I'm a bit stuck. I don't want to be here, but for the life of me, I can't figure out how to make myself leave."

The duck blinked, as if trying to figure out what exactly had been said.

"You can't leave? What, like you physically can't?"

"I thought we agreed on no questions?"

"That was a question you just asked right now."

"Oh, darn, you're right. I guess we both lost, then." QuackerJack tossed his hands in the air in a shrug, cocking an eyebrow. He smiled playfully, perhaps for the first time in a while. "Guess we _have_ to ask questions now."

"Well, then, since we might as well..." The duck agreed, bringing a hand to his face to hide the smile he was starting to crack in spite of this. "Do you need any help?"

"... What?"

"I saw that you seemed like you were having a bad time." The duck explained. "You're sitting on the curb in this district, holding your head and breathing like you're all dizzy. You said you're lost, and you don't want to be here. It sounds like you need a little help."

"... Are you _sure_ I don't know you? Because I feel like we've met before." QuackerJack said loudly, as if he hadn't exactly heard the explanation. "I mean, it's very likely you know who I am, because it's not like I'm a nobody around here, but I feel like we've done things together before, like... maybe we know each other from somewhere else?"

"... Mr. QuackerJack, I can assure you that you've never met me before."

Normally, most people would ask how a stranger knew thier name, but in the case of the toy maker, he knew that it would harder to find someone who _hadn't_ heard of him in St. Canard. It wasn't like he'd bother to get rid of his well known hat, and it was almost fact that his toothy grinning beak was practically as infamous as his crimes.

"... What's your name? At least tell me so I can be sure."

"It's not going to-"

"Tell me your name!" QuackerJack was desperate to put this odd and almost scary sensation of having forgotten something very important to rest. "I don't mean to be a bother, really, but it's starting to gnaw at my brain like I could be forgetting something, and honestly, I've been having these _terrible_ lapses in memory lately that I'm legitimately terrified that I'm losing my mind again!"

The duck stared at him, briefly flashing an unreadable expression behind the eyes as he seemed to think it over.

"... Please, you don't understand..." QuackerJack added in a begging tone, appearing to be most definitely concerned about the actual state of his mind right now. His hands were clasped in a pleading gesture. "... I'm really trying. I know people are scared of me, but I'm trying to be good. If any of my toys did anything to you in the past, or maybe someone you care about, I'm really, really sorry. I just have to know if we've met and I've just forgotten. My brain has been such a mess lately, that's why I'm out here in the first place; I was trying to clear it so I could get to sleep. If you don't tell me your name, it's going to bother me for who knows how long..."

The duck continued to look at him, and it was only when he saw the trails of tears pouring out of QuackerJack's wide desperate eyes, that he seemed to take pity on the poor clown.

"... Drake. My name is Drake."

"... I don't think I know a Drake." QuackerJack frowned a little. "... That doesn't exactly help, because now I'm worried that I'd forgotten..."

"Maybe you'd seen me as a customer before? You had a toy company, right?" Drake cautiously sat down on the curb beside him, but seemed to be on edge himself.

"That was so long ago, I doubt I'd remember a face with as much certainty as I am right now." QuackerJack huffed. "... I know your voice. I don't know how, but I know your voice."

"Maybe you're just tired, Mr. QuackerJack." Drake said carefully, to which the clown flashed an annoyed look at him. "It's late, and you said you haven't been able to sleep. Exhaustion can be really cruel to the brain."

"... Who do you think you are, telling me that?"

"A concerned bystander."

QuackerJack forced another laugh, but this time, it didn't sound as enthusiastic as he usually did.

"... I'll be honest, you're the first 'bystander' to actually pay me any mind." He looked at Drake and tilted his head quizzically as he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "If this was happening during the day, I'm sure everyone would just walk around me. I'm not very popular outside of the office, outside of QuackWerks, you know?"

"I can imagine it's probably for an obvious reason you don't need to be reminded of..."

"You hit the nail on the head there, Drake." QuackerJack smiled bitterly, nodding. "I mean, I totally deserve it, but that doesn't mean that I like it. I didn't mean to hurt anyone, it was just a mistake, but I shouldn't have been such a monster. What I did was inexcusable, and I have to pay for that. But, I'm just so sick of this and I just want to start over. I just want to make toys again, I just want to _do_ something and be _someone_ , anyone but this... this... crazy... crazy clown man."

Drake blinked.

"... I suppose all you can do is just keep trying your best."

"... I know, but I feel like there's a brick wall that I keep slamming into..." QuackerJack mumbled and buried his face in his hands. "... I wanna go home..." He moaned suddenly, in a bit of a desperate whimper through his fingers.

"... Is there someone I could call for you?"

"... No..." QuackerJack shook his head miserably. "... I mean, I have a friend, but I haven't known her for very long... it would be very wierd to call her at this hour of the night..."

He felt a hand touch his shoulder and he flinched away with a startled yelp, craning his head to stare up at the duck behind him with wide eyes.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." Drake apologized hastily. "But... There's a bus stop just down the road, I could take you there and you can take that back to where you want to go."

"... I... I don't have a bus pass and I left my wallet at home..."

"... I'll take care of it for you."

"N-no, you don't have to, I'd hate to be a bother..." QuackerJack was already feeling awkward to begin with, and this was just intensifying it. "... I'll just wait until morning and call my friend up, instead."

"It's not exactly a good part of town over here; it would be dumb of me to just leave someone here when they clearly don't want to be."

"... Why are you so intent on helping me, anyway?" QuackerJack was starting to get paranoid, but he couldn't quite figure out why. Why was this guy not leaving him alone? "... You don't owe me anything, and I don't really know you, so by all means, you don't have to."

"... Let's just get you home, Mr. QuackerJack." Drake said, completely avoided the question. He held a hand out, offering it. "It's getting late, and you're clearly not feeling... well."

"... Understatement, perhaps..." QuackerJack mumbled in agreement begrudgingly, sliding a hand along the side of his head before he stared at the hand offered to him with some apprehension, then he took it. "... Thanks..."

"No, problem." Drake helped pull him to his feet, and QuackerJack stood in place with an unsteady bit of stance, as if his legs didn't want to hold his weight. The clown stared back at him apologetically. "... Are you alright, Mr. QuackerJack?"

"... Just get me out of here."

Drake picked up the large brown paper bag from the ground and started to lead QuackerJack to the aforementioned bus stop. QuackerJack quickly grabbed Drake's arm and clung to him like a lost child. Drake had almost instinctively shoved QuackerJack away, that is, until he saw the terrified expression crossing the clown's tired face, and he reluctantly relented.

"... Bad night, Mr. QuackerJack?"

"... Very. I hate it here, it's a terrible place. I'd like to go home now, please."

"The bus stop is this way, it's really not that far."

"I don't care, I just want to get out of here."

Drake led him down the street, and it surprised QuackerJack that the bus stop was closer than he'd expected. All things considered, he could have just gotten over to the bench on his own if he hadn't been so turned around and confused.

"There we go, Mr. QuackerJack, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

"... I'm not a child, you know that?" QuackerJack huffed as he quickly sat down on the bench before his legs could give out on him. "... Thank you."

"Yep, yep, yep, I do what I can to help."

QuackerJack felt the color drain from his face as something was jarred violently from the back of his mind. He started to shake as he turned his head to stare at Drake with a dumbfounded look, eyes wide and pupils constricted as a response to the sudden rush of adrenaline that had hit him like a freight train.

"... What did you just say..?" He said breathlessly, feeling his fingers dig into his palms as he squeezed his hands tightly. "... Are you sure we've never met..?"

"... Mr. QuackerJack, I can assure you that we've never-!"

"It's you!" QuackerJack shouted suddenly, once something finally connected, and Drake froze in place, shock still. QuackerJack was pointing at him. "I can't believe it, you're the one from the museum!"

"... Hah?"

"You were there at the toy museum when I was robbing it! You were hit by that ball!" QuackerJack was still loud, as if he couldn't quite handle the sudden resurfacing of this memory and just had to shout it as it came to him. "You were there, and you had your kid, and I started ranting about how much I hated video games because she wanted to go to the arcade instead! Of course, I should have remembered that vest and pink shirt!"

"... Actually, it's 'salmon'..."

"Oh my goodness, no wonder you didn't say anything, I wouldn't have either if I got laughed at for getting squashed and the guy yelled at my kid or something!"

"... You... You have _kids_ , Mr. QuackerJack?"

"... No, I've never even been married. I was just saying 'if'..." QuackerJack muttered, face a bit red as he looked at his feet. "I mean, I actually do like kids. That's why I wanted to make toys, you know?"

"... I see."

"Oh, man, I'm so sorry, that really wasn't a good time for me. It was bad, it got really, really bad, really fast, like, you have no idea, but I'm just so very sorry that that's how we met."

"It's not a big deal, really."

"... Y'know, I'm not sure if you're aware, but you might want to keep an eye on that kid of yours. I've seen her get into some really dangerous situations, she just seems to show up when there's some crime going on, like she's following the heroes or something..." QuackerJack added as an afterthought. "I haven't seen her in a while, but you should know that. It's not safe, especially for a kid her age. There's some dangerous criminals in this town. I should know."

Drake stared before he snorted.

"She's a handful, but I'll be sure to talk to her about it." He bit back a smile. "Well, that looks like the bus, Mr. QuackerJack. Here's some money for the fare, and you just go home and try to sleep this all off."

"... I'd like that very much, I'm desperate." QuackerJack nodded and smiled back, taking the bus fare as he carefully stood up from the bench. He climb the steps of the bus, and looked back at the duck. "... Thanks, Drake."

But, Drake was already gone and out of sight.

"... What a strange duck..."

* * *

QuackerJack was swirling his coffee with a stirrer stick, sitting opposite of Claire.

Well, his coffee wasn't so much as "coffee" as it was more like half a plastic cup of syrups being flavored by coffee, and enough sugar to make one's teeth itch. He liked sweetness to the point of it being the overpowering flavor. One wasn't sure what was worse: QuackerJack hopped up on caffeine, or QuackerJack strung out on excessive sugar. God forbid, both.

Admittedly, he was learning how to handle the buzz he got from his sludgy, syrupy drink flavored with coffee, but he'd still be a bit of a motormouth when the sugar high kicked in.

He stirred his drink and looked up at Claire.

"... I don't hear as many people whispering behind my back today."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, usually when I go somewhere, I can hear everyone talking about me." He nodded, glancing around the coffee shop. "Well, not always hear it, because sometimes it's too low, but I just know it's about me."

"You seem to be in a better mood today, at least." Claire smiled a little.

"I got to talk some things out with Ms. Mustela the other day."

"Ms. Mustela?"

"My therapist. She's really nice and lets me talk about things at my own pace. She's been working with me since I got put to work at QuackWerks." He grinned back. "I don't really remember how our first sessions went, because I was a little bit catatonic back then, but she didn't give up on me, because she was sure she'd get me to respond." He sipped his drink, and felt some sugar crystals crunch between his teeth. He needed a bit longer for the sugar to dissolve entirely, it seemed. "... She's not scared of me."

"Oh?"

"Nope." QuackerJack said in a matter-of-fact voice, shaking his head. "I don't really care much about how bland her office decor is, but I feel safe talking to her. I tell her more than I usually tell anyone, because she doesn't judge me, I think. I mean, she does write down notes, but I honestly don't feel threatened. I can't explain why, but I just... It's nice. I like it."

"Well, I'm glad to see that you're doing better today." Claire said. QuackerJack found that he rather enjoyed her pleasant friendly tone of voice. "You really worried me the other day, you know? You were really upset, and I wasn't sure if you were having a crisis or just a very bad day."

QuackerJack blinked and felt his face get really warm again.

"... Sorry." He mumbled, dragging his attention back to his sugary drink. "... It was just a very bad day. I didn't sleep very well, and I wasn't in the mood to deal with everyone whispering about me... And..." He frowned and bit his lower lip before continuing. "... I think I kinda lost it because I saw a kid with a banana doll, and it just hit me like a ton of bricks. It wasn't _him_ , but it just made my chest hurt so much, and it made me feel so sick..."

Claire hesitated before she carefully reached a hand out.

"... I'm going to touch your shoulder, is that alright?"

"... Y'know, you're actually the first person to ask me before actually doing it..." QuackerJack looked up and eyed her hand cautiously. "... Sure, go ahead."

Without meaning to, he practically melted at the gentle touch and any tension in his shoulders had disappeared. It was comforting, and he honestly couldn't remember the last time he hadn't flinched at physical contact. It was nice. He liked this particular feeling very much.

"... He really meant a lot to you, didn't he, Jacky?"

"... He was like my best friend..." QuackerJack said in a strained sort of voice, eyes starting to well up. "... It's my fault, it's all my fault... I... I shouldn't have let go of him, I should have pocketed him, or I should have held onto him harder..."

"... Jacky?"

"... I let him hurt Mr. Banana Brain... I... I... I just stood there and watched..." He was starting to shake, and he put his trembling hands on his head to grab fistfuls of his hat. "... I just... I just stood there and _watched_... I just st-stood there and watched..."

Claire was immediately concerned by this behavior. The toy maker's eyes were getting blurry and unfocused, and he sank in his chair as he kept babbling, absolutely inconsolable now, as if he didn't realize where he was or who he was with at this exact moment. It was a bit frustrating that no one in the coffee shop so much as flashed a look of concern, and at least two patrons merely rolled thier eyes once QuackerJack burst into blubbering tears, and they simply turned back to working on their laptops they had brought in.

The poor distraught clown was falling apart in the middle of the cafe and no one else seemed to care.

Claire moved her chair to sit right next to him and carefully reached her arms around him, cautiously, as she was aware that he could very well lash out in primal terror in his despair. Instead, he just leaned into her and continued to wail miserably as she patted his back in an attempt to calm him down.

It helped somewhat, apparently, as QuackerJack was now whimpering quietly, having moved his hands from his hat to hide his hot mess of a face. It was a bit like watching a child wear themselves out from crying, if Claire was going to be perfectly honest.

"... Jacky, are you alright? I shouldn't have said anything about it, I'm sorry."

He suddenly pushed away from her, head low, and slapped his clear plastic cup to the floor before storming out of the coffee shop with a harsh gasp. The door gave a cheery jingle from the alert bells, which was a stark contrast to what had just happened.

Claire swiftly followed after him (after appologizing the sticky mess on the floor and quickly dropping a few extra dollars in the tip jar as a hasty compensation), and almost lost track of him, if not for the unmistakable noises that was his choked, muffled sobbing drifting from a nearby alley.

He was sitting on the ground, knees drawn to his chest and arms wrapped around them, head buried. He seemed absolutely miserable, and Claire couldn't help but feel somewhat responsible for the reaction he'd had. Perhaps she'd overstepped a boundary...

She sat down next to him, and waited for him to calm down again. She would have put a hand on his trembling shoulders, but she didn't want to startle him. She simply waited as he wailed between gasps of air.

It wasn't clear how long had passed, as Claire wasn't watching the time, but eventually QuackerJack sniffled loudly and lifted his head to look around with bleary, reddened eyes. His sight settled on Claire and he stared at her for some time in silence before he finally acknowledged her as his eyes focused.

"... I made a scene... didn't I..?" He said in a hoarse voice, looking at the ground with a sad sort of frown. "... I don't know what came over me... I thought I was fine today..."

"I really shouldn't have pried about that right now, you're clearly still raw about it." Claire apologized. "You'll talk about it when you're ready to. I shouldn't keep bugging you over it."

"It's been _months._ When? When am I going to? I'm just-! It's so-! I _hate_ this!" QuackerJack snapped back, grabbing his hat again in bunched up handfuls, and yanking on it forcefully, amazingly not managing to tear the hat off his head. "I hate it! I can't do anything about it! I can't forget it! I can't move on! I can't function! No one cares! No one understands! No matter how much I try to explain it, it's just dismissed because he wasn't _real!_ He was to me! I don't understand 'normal'! I just scare people, and I know I deserve it, but I just want them to stop!"

"... If it helps any, I'm not scared of you."

QuackerJack froze in mid-rant and stared at the brick wall across from him in the alley before he blinked and turned his head to look at Claire, hands letting go of his hat and he slowly slid his fingers down to lightly touch his jaw in shock.

"... What?"

"You haven't noticed?"

"... What?"

"I'm sitting in this alley with you and consoling you, you really think you scare me?"

"... But, why, though?" QuackerJack was still clearly confused, and in all honesty, he'd never given much thought to the fact that she'd followed him outside the shop after he'd had a public meltdown. "... Why are you even trying with me? You don't owe me anything."

"If I'm going to be perfectly honest, I guess it's because of your smile." Claire said, causing QuackerJack to now drop his arms to his sides in shock, his position now resembling a plush doll sitting in a slump. "Not the big wide grin, but that cute little one you do when you're talking about what you like. It's sweet."

"... _Cute?_ " He squeaked, clearly thrown for a loop. He blinked, fidgeted and blinked again. It was almost like it was an incomprehensible thought to him. "... _Cute?_ She thinks I'm _cute?_ I'm _cute!_ "

He started to laugh, in that nervous sort of way, before it dissolved into hysterics as he slapped a hand to his forehead and continued to laugh as if he'd heard the funniest story ever told. He kicked his feet and threw his head back and just laughed and laughed and laughed. This was not his infamous giggle of lunacy, no. This was a genuinely amused sort of comes-deep-from-within belly laugh, the kind that brought tears to his eyes, and he hadn't done so for so long, that he'd forgotten how good it made him feel.

He finally petered out after a minute or so and leaned forward, bracing himself with his hands in front of him and smiled contentedly. Eyes looking sleepy from the full bodied emotional roller-coaster ride, but contented nonetheless.

"... I haven't been that happy for way too long." He said, tilting his head to glance sideways at her. "... I think you're cute, too, by the way."

There was a small laugh through the nostrils followed by a smile from Claire.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. In fact, first time I noticed you, after you laughed at one of my jokes, my stomach was in knots." He snorted, sliding a thumb across a closed eye to wipe it dry. "I thought I was just getting sick, but Rick said it was 'butterflies'. I'd never heard of those before, so I thought he was just messing with me. I thought you wouldn't really notice me, so I guess I figured I shouldn't even try. Then I got hit by that Magic 8-Ball, it seemed like you wouldn't leave me alone after that." He wiggled his feet in a fidgeting fashion, and stared at them. "... I'm glad you didn't leave me alone."

"I guess you could say that I quite like you."

"... I think I quite like you, too."

* * *

I think it's good to end this chapter here.

A _lot_ of emotions going on with Quacky, hmm?

Originally, I had intended for him to call up Claire when he got stuck in that district (which, by the way, is meant to be where the warehouse was, when Negaduck shredded Mr. Banana Brain), but then I realized that expecting it to be believable that he just phones her to rescue him this late at night, when they're still early in thier acquaintances, so I took it a different direction. I like the idea that Drake/Darkwing and QuackerJack may have encountered each other at some point while both in civilian identities, with QuackerJack being as oblivious as ever. Much like how Batman has to be completely different as Bruce Wayne, I imagine that Darkwing has to ignore his usual reactions to QuackerJack if he was (un)fortunate to cross paths out of costume. Secret identity and all that, y'know? :P

Edit: Mild fix here I had to do that I had missed initially because my dog was slapping me with a toy lobster while I was uploading.

Also... Gonna see if you guys can catch the CSI reference, of an interesting episode saga involving dolls~


End file.
